Downtime
by KCUrquhart
Summary: Series of single scenes. Follow Clint and/or Coulson. Just moments of their lives. What happens between all the chaos and drama. -Not related to any of my C/C series or their timelines.-
1. Coulson's Locker

Being a senior agent meant Phil got one of the roomier quarters on the helicarrier. Unfortunately, said room was still smaller than his office at HQ. With a bed filling up one whole wall and a desk taking up most of the other, there was hardly enough space to stand. But Phil never complained. He had a window and his own (equally tiny) bathroom, so he was a lot better off than everyone, besides maybe Fury. And no one knew what Fury's quarters looked like. Actually, no one was sure if he even had quarters or had found a way to skip over sleep entirely.

Phil's favorite part of the room was that he had a door that locked. No one could just barge in and demand his help or ask him about paperwork. He didn't even have to worry about Clint dropping down on him. The air vents in the helicarrier were too small for the man to move around in. Which had caused Clint to throw a temper tantrum any toddler would have been proud of.

He did wish that the rooms weren't so boring. They were just temporary barracks, he knew. Places to sleep whenever they got a chance. Which, if they were on the helicarrier, usually meant that there was some sort of emergency and sleep could wait until after. So Phil took every opportunity for sleep that he got. Even if it was only the two hours between debriefings.

Phil shrugged off his suit jacket and opened up the locker that stood between the desk and the door. It was the exact same size as his high school locker. Same dull grey metal. Even made by the same company. He swore it was the exact same one. There was a dent on the front exactly where Susie Doyle had slammed into his locker sophomore year.

The inside of the locker was barely big enough for the two changes of clothes Phil kept on board. His extra pair of shoes fitting away neatly in the bottom. The polished black leather glinting in the harsh fluorescent lighting. The top shelf, where Phil had once kept notebooks and loose pencils and the occasional snack for when he got hungry between classes, was now filled with Phil's neatly organized toiletries. Everything was smooth and perfect and streamlined. Not a thing out of place.

The only splash of color in the room was on the inside of the locker door. Three pictures were hung up with magnets. A picture of him and his parents the day he'd left for boot camp. One of him and Clint and Natasha a few weeks after their first mission as a team. They'd gone out to celebrate. It was the first time Phil had seen Nat smile. The third picture was just him and Clint. The two of them at the Statue of Liberty. Taking a day to just be tourists. All were held up by magnets that Clint had bought for him from missions he'd gone on without Phil. Moscow and Rio and Toronto and Cairo. Dozens of magnets of every shape and size littered the door, leaving just enough space for the three pictures and one other thing.

It was just a small pencil holder. Phil had found it at some chain discount store during a back-to-school sale. Made of cheap red plastic and Phil had had to re-glue on the magnet a few times. But he loved it. Because it was the exact perfect size to hold his Captain America trading cards.


	2. Flying Lessons

"You have thirty seconds to convince me that this is a good idea." Clint smirked as Fury leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled and his one eye glaring at him and Coulson. Clint looked to Coulson, not saying a word. He would end up cleaning toilets for a month if he opened his mouth right now. This was all Coulson.

"I think it would be for the best, sir." Coulson ignored the way Clint was staring at him. His eyes straight ahead and face not showing anything. It was taking all of Clint's focus not to start bouncing in his seat. He wanted this. He really, really wanted this. "It'd be easier if Barton could fly himself to the more… isolated locations his job often requires."

"You honestly expect me to believe that giving Barton, the pain in the ass that already causes more trouble than he's worth, flying lessons for one of my brand new, multi-million dollar jets isn't going to come back and bite me in the ass?" Fury cast his evil one-eyed glare on Clint who tried, and failed, to hide the shit-eating grin on his face.

"He has already proven himself an adequate pilot." Fury raised an eyebrow. "He has a private pilot's license and a helicopter license. As hard as it is to believe," Coulson sighed loudly, "he seems to be capable of flying without killing himself. Or anyone else."

"Yes, but he also holds the record for single-handed destruction of SHIELD vehicles –"

"In my defense" Clint interrupted. "Most of those were necessary for withholding an attack."

"Most?!" Fury leaned forward angrily.

"Shut up, Barton." Coulson whispered out of the side of his mouth. "I told you to let me handle this."

"Sorry, sir." Clint bit his lip to keep himself quiet.

"Ignore him." Coulson turned his attention back to Fury.

"I try." Fury cast one more angry glance at Clint, who did his best to look humbled (again failing miserably). Fury closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "If he wrecks one of my new quinjets, I'll be riding your ass so hard you'll feel it for a month."

Clint couldn't resist. "Sorry, sir. I already called dibs on that particular task."

"Get. out." Coulson dragged Clint from the office as Fury's face twisted in anger.

Clint leaned back through the closing door. "Is that a yes?" He could swear he saw Fury smile.


	3. Card Trick

"So did you learn anything useful, growing up in the circus?" Coulson looked across the break room to the junior agent who was speaking to Clint.

"You mean beyond the archery and knife throwing and acrobatics?" Clint snarked. The comment was made all the more threatening by the knife he drew from a hidden pocket and started flipping between his fingers. Coulson noted the way the junior agents eyes followed the movement. The heads of a few other people were now turned towards them as well.

"Um, yeah." The junior agents voice was a little higher and weaker.

Another agent came up behind the first, backing him up. "Come on, _Hawkeye_, you must have picked up a few less than honest skills, living as a carny."

Coulson groaned internally at the evil smirk that spread across Clint's face. He knew how much Clint hated that word. But even more than that, he hated being doubted.

"Well..." Clint drawled and Coulson had to resist rolling his eyes. "Anyone have a deck of cards?"

"A card trick?" The second agent scoffed even as someone handed a deck over.

Clint only smiled and fanned the cards out with one hand. "Pick a card, any card." Clint used his best showman's voice. The agent rolled his eyes but did as he was told. "Show it to the crowd." He did, it was a three of hearts. "Okay, now put it back."

Once the card was returned to the deck, Clint handed it to the first junior agent. "Shuffle the deck." The agent fumbled the cards slightly as he complied, obviously still slightly flustered at the turn of events. "Okay, now throw them in the air."

"Wh- what?" The junior agent stammered.

"The deck of cards in your hand," Clint spoke slowly, enunciating each sylablle. "Throw them into the air. Make a mess."

The agent looked towards the other man standing next to him. They shrugged to each other before the agent threw the cards. They scattered far and wide.

Coulson would have missed the movement if he hadn't been looking for it. There was a flash of silver and a soft thud. The cards settled to the ground. All except for one. The three of heart was pinned to the far wall, Clint's knife embedded into the center. Every agent in the room gasped.

Clint turned to meet Coulson's eye. He winked and Coulson just shook his head. "I'm not picking that up." He mouthed, knowing by Clint's smirk that he understood. Phil stood and left the room, the sounds of shock and disbelief following him out into the hall.


	4. An American Tradition

Clint wasn't much for traditions. He hated being predictable; it gave people a leg up on you if they knew ahead of time where you were going to be. But there was one tradition that he refused to give up. It was a secret tradition, though he was fairly certain that both Coulson and Natasha knew exactly what it was. But they never asked him about it, and he never offered to tell them. But every year, for one day in spring, Clint would disappear from SHIELD HQ. There were thousands of rumors about where exactly he went and what he did during that day, but no one had ever gotten it right.

The cheering of the crowd was a familiar roar that eased all of the tension of the year from Clint's shoulders. He could make out the squeals of children, here for the first time, surrounded by the chants of the devoted fans. The sea of red swam through the stadium and the sniper part of Clint's mind knew how hard it would be to try and pick out a specific person in the chaos.

Barney had suggested actually joining the crowds once. That maybe they should spend some of their saving and sit down in the baseball stadium with everyone else and feel like normal brothers for one day. Clint had laughed at the concept of them ever being normal. So they had continued to watch from their perch atop an office building across the street.

It had all started the first year they'd joined the circus. They had been moving through St. Louis when they overheard people talking about opening day for the Cardinals. Barney had drug Clint to the game and Clint had found their perch, and Barney had stolen them hot dogs from a street vendor that only seemed to show up on game days.

Clint could no longer remember who had won that game, but he remembered that it had been the first day he and Barney had actually enjoyed each other's company. The circus had gone back through St. Louis 2 years later, and they made sure to go watch another baseball game. Even though it wasn't opening day, it still somehow felt like the beginning of a tradition. After that, every time they were in St. Louis, they went to a game together. Always sitting in the same perch, always getting hotdogs from the same vendor, always rooting for the Cardinals despite not really knowing any of the other teams.

But things had changed. Things had gone wrong and Clint and Barney had gone their separate ways. It had been a rough time for Clint, losing his brother. It didn't matter that they fought most of the time or that they spent 364 days pissing each other of, because they always had one day when they could forget their pasts and just be brothers. And for a long time after Barney left, Clint stayed as far away from baseball and St. Louis as he could possibly get.

Clint's hatred of baseball had been one of the first things about him that had swept through SHIELD once he joined. It was hard for people not to notice once you shot a tv with an exploding arrow simply because ESPN was showing highlights from a Cardinals game. Some people had tried to ask him about it but he was always able to fend them off with the cold stare he'd learned from Coulson.

His entire life had turned upside-down again when Barney died. Clint had flown to St. Louis after the funeral and had gone to their old perch. He hadn't really been sure why, but it had suddenly felt foolish to let go of the one piece of family he had had left. He wished he had made peace with Barney before it was too late and that they could have caught just one more game together.

Clint knew Barney had felt the same way. It was evidenced in the dozens of phrases carved into the concrete of their perch. Small little things that Barney must have written over the years when they had been apart. The dates of the games they'd attended as kids. The story about the one time Clint had tried a tofu-dog on a dare and had nearly thrown up. But Clint's favorite was the small little C and B with an arrow shooting through them. He couldn't believe Barney had remembered the stupid little symbol that Clint had drawn on nearly every surface of their trailer for a year until Barney had yelled at him.

In the six years since Barney's death he had never missed a Cardinal's opening game. He'd even purposely declined missions if they would interfere. Instead he would catch an early morning flight out, climb up to their perch for the game before flying back to HQ that night.

He shifted so that his feet dangled over the edge of the building as the first batter stepped up to the plate. The sun was a little too bright and the helmet reflected it back at him. The air was still just a touch too cold and Clint figured that the loyal fans decked out in just team t-shirts were probably shivering. It was far from the perfect baseball weather, but as Clint unwrapped the hot dog from its tinfoil, he smiled to himself as he caught sight of the small tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Two single letters with an arrow shooting through them. Most people figured the CB stood for Clint Barton, and he let them continue thinking that.


	5. Bad Day

Clint isn't an alcoholic. He really isn't. He doesn't need to drink (and yes he knows that sounds like the line that every alcoholic uses) and he really could go his entire life without a drink if he wanted to. It comes from watching his father drink his life away until it had destroyed their whole family. The memories were always there in the back of his mind and they kept him from ever doing anything stupid.

But that didn't mean he was simply never going to drink. Because in his line of work, there were plenty of days where the only possible way to cope was to go home and get absolutely hammered. Yesterday had been one of those days. It hadn't been a 'get black-out drunk' sort of horrible day, but an 'I really just can't deal with this right now' sort of day.

And the thing was, Clint wasn't even sure why it had affected him so much. It was only a few small things that had gone wrong: his phone falling in the sink and dying, his quiver strap snapping, stubbing his toe on a table. Nothing huge. Nothing worthy of ruining his day to this extreme. Especially not to the point that it was still bothering him the day after.

Clint took another swig out of the whiskey bottle and stared out across the New York skyline. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he figured it was nearing 3am. The last lights of the distant clubs and parties were finally being doused and the city was settling into that short span of time where it was well and truly silent. It was Clint's favorite time. There was something magical about knowing you were awake amidst a sea of millions of slumbering people. It was a freedom that he couldn't put into words. Like somehow this was the only time when he didn't have to think about prying eyes judging him.

The whiskey wasn't working nearly as well as he had been hoping. His thoughts were still more or less coherent and the world wasn't even wobbling let alone spinning like it had been the night before. But last night he'd downed a whole fifth on a nearly empty stomach. He wasn't even half-way through today's fifth. His stomach was still queasy from yesterday's indulgence. It was as close to a hangover as Clint ever got. Which he guessed he was lucky for, never waking up to a splitting headache.

A part of Clint wished that Natasha was up here with him. Drinking always made him talkative and way-too-honest and she was the only person he trusted not to judge him for whatever shit he may admit to. She was the one who laughed at his weird childhood stories and willingly had drunken philosophical debates with him. But she was on a mission somewhere classified. And that was half the reason that the last two days had gotten to him so much.

Natasha had told him that Clint should just start talking to Coulson as well. That Coulson knew Clint well enough that nothing drunk-Clint said could possibly surprise him. Clint had been tempted to call him tonight, his phone was still sitting like a lead weight in his pants pocket. But he didn't want to bother Coulson. Not over something this stupid.

Clint groaned and gulped at the whiskey, ignoring the way it burned at his throat. He didn't care how long or how much alcohol it took. He just really wanted to forget that the last two days had ever happened. He wanted to not think for just a few hours. To just become the hollowed out and emotionless shell, overflowing with stupid thoughts and opinions, that only alcohol could turn him into. He just wanted to pretend that there was no tomorrow steadily approaching. That there was no work to get back to. To be able to delude himself for a little while that maybe the outside world didn't really matter and to hope that this sort of dazed half-life feeling could continue forever.


End file.
